


Meet Me By The Flowers

by rainonmyback



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Cancer Arc, Emotional, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Finale, True Love, idk how to tag this, kind of ......sad, they in new mexico babey!!!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:35:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28968402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainonmyback/pseuds/rainonmyback
Summary: House never did practice medicine again. Afterall, he’s dead. No sick person wants a lifelike corpse to diagnose them with meningitis or anemia.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	Meet Me By The Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is appreciated!! :-) hope u enjoy!

House never did practice medicine again. Afterall, he’s dead. No sick person wants a lifelike corpse to diagnose them with meningitis or anemia. He created a fake name: Walter Cave. He figured he might as well have a noun as a last name. 

Eventually, he got a job. A little bookstore, in a tiny town in New Mexico. 

They loved it there. It was a quiet place, where the Summers were long and the Winters could be cozy. The sky was drenched in golds and lilacs, fat clouds swirling around the canvas. Sunsets were always to be observed. Admired. 

Wilson loved watching the sunset. He’d take in any pleasure that he could. They’d watch it together, in the town’s park. No one else would be there, besides a dog walker or two. Maybe some kids hucking around a frisbee. But the atmosphere was peaceful. 

They’d sit in the grass, House feeling the blades tickle his knuckles as he could feel the other man lean in close. House and Wilson’s intimacy is much like a sunset in itself; slow and intense. And  _ warm _ . Beautiful, intoxicating to partake in. House was never good at self expression, especially when it came to feelings, but if there’s one thing to be known, it was that he needed Wilson. And Wilson needed House.

They got by. Bought a tiny house. Wilson would go to the local library and stake out there, reading up on poetry and philosophy. Sometimes he’d go to the small museum, looking at artifacts and culture. And then, usually at closing hours, he’d stop by the bookstore. Acting as if he was looking for something. 

They’d take walks. Short ones, usually, given circumstances. There was a spot that Wilson loved, a tiny field of sorts, covered in flowers. It looked like it was an image ripped straight out of an Italian art piece. Wilson would sometimes pick a flower, twirling it against his fingers, before letting it go, the wind taking the offering. 

There were bad days, of course. Sleepless nights. Muffled crying from the bathroom. Pain. Ungodly, unimaginable pain. Sometimes the dull shrieking from his leg, and sometimes from the sight of Wilson, eyes bloodshot and skin grey. As if he’d crumble at the slightest touch.  _ He looks so fragile.  _ Absolutely terrifying. 

It was long and short, all at once. So much happened, yet many times, House wondered if he was just waiting to wake up. As if this was all some dream his brain was pulling off. 

He had nothing but Wilson and the fear of the inevitable, heading straight at them. 

\--

It was a Wednesday. Summer.

This was bound to happen, sometime. Dates don’t really matter, truthfully. Not to House. Not on this day. 

It wasn’t quick. You could feel it in the air--a battle, long drawn out, and fought with a fire within, slowly coming to an end. The war was over. The pulse was weakening. His eyes were closing.  _ No.  _

He held Wilson’s hand like it was the cure to pain itself, as if it was the only thing in the World. Because it was. 

He died at 7:15 PM. The sky wept gently. House didn’t sleep. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. 

\--

Wilson didn’t have a funeral, per say. He didn’t even have a grave, really. He was buried in the field, with all the flowers. House made sure to place him where the pink roses and golden tulips met.  _ And people say Wilson was the one with style.  _

House would come, everyday after work. To talk. To bicker. To cry. 

It was normal, he supposes. To still feel Wilson around him, inside his heart. Still there, making sure he drinks water, and eats at least once a day, and gets out of bed. To prod and pester, to nag and dote on, to care. 

House promised him on that Wednesday night that he wouldn’t act out. That he wouldn’t try…

Try to follow him too soon. He’d die eventually, as all living things do. But not now, not yet. 

Eventually. One day. 


End file.
